The Valley of the Shadow of Death
by Rokesmith
Summary: When a target turns out to be more than he seems, Ken is captured and the rest of Weiss face a terrible choice: his life or the mission.
1. Trouble is Near

**The Valley of the Shadow of Death**  
Rokesmith

**Disclaimer:** Weiss Kreuz, its characters, indices etcetera belong to Takehito Koyasu, Kyoko Tsuchiya and Project Weiss. This fanfic was written for fun rather than profit and any resemblances to persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

**Author's Note:** This fanfic is something of a team effort. It is the twin of quietladybirman's fic _Through a Glass Darkly_. The overall plot of the story – centring on a captured Ken – was her idea, and we worked on it together. However became clear that in order to tell the full story properly, the fic would need to split into two very different parts: one focussed on Ken and the other on the rest of Weiss. While she wrote Ken's experiences, she asked me to relate the story of his capture and the efforts of his teammates to get him back. Both parts can be read separately, but together they provide a more complete understanding of the tale.

**Warnings: **Later chapters of this story deal with mature themes including premature burial and torture, which some readers may find disturbing. Rated for language and implied physical and sexual abuse.

* * *

Chapter One: Trouble is Near

Youji Kudou stood in a car park on the outskirts of Shibuya, beside the remains of a shattered radio. It was definitely Ken's, he had instantly recognised the large orange headphones that Ken wore as camouflage, blending into the crowds as just another young man walking along listening to a CD player.

"Ken!" he shouted. "Ken!"

No answer, just the reply of his own voice echoing between the cars and the concrete walls. He had not expected one. The radio and headphones were smashed, crushed by something heavy, and in the empty space beside them Youji could easily make out the dark streaks left by tires; rubber abandoned on the ground as the vehicle had accelerated towards the exit ramp.

Youji gave the area one last look over, getting down on his knees and peering under cars for any sign of his friend, but there was nothing. Then, for the fifth time in ten minutes he swore, loudly and helplessly, and then turned and ran as fast as he could towards the subway station.

* * *

It had started the same way any mission did. It was closing time on a Wednesday afternoon. Omi was in the back room with the takings, Ken was carrying the final plant in from outside, Aya was trying to shoo the last schoolgirls out so they could close the shutters, and Youji was leaning against the table, idly pushing a potted plant back and forth and wondering how long he should leave it before he started threatening them with the hose.

Then he saw Manx.

She appeared out of the dusk and stepped calmly into the shop. Her blue eyes swept over the scene inside – Ken momentarily freezing as she looked at him, Aya giving barely a nod of acknowledgement – before settling on Youji. He smiled at her, his best broad friendly smile, but it was not returned. It never was, but he tried anyway. Manx was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, even more beautiful for the fact that she was completely unobtainable. The eyes were cool, calm and detached; she was, Youji thought, like a nurse, unwilling to let herself feel for those she watched over because she knew what might happen to them. Even so, some part of him longed to see behind the facade, to know the woman beneath.

Ken snapped his fingers in front of Youji's eyes. "Earth to Kudou." He snapped them again, then looked up nervously. "Hi."

Manx didn't resist as Youji slipped his arm around her waist, half enjoying the whisper running through the girls by the door. "Is she Youji's girlfriend? She's really pretty."

Aya used the distraction to force the girls through the door, then he and Ken closed the shutters. Manx, apparently oblivious to the arm around her waist, walked into the back room. Omi looked up from his accounting and then sprang to his feet. He gave Manx a brief bow and then hurried down the stairs into the basement where he waited in the chair. Youji had enough time to make himself comfortable on the sofa, lounging back as though he were about to watch a movie he'd rented, before Ken and Aya arrived. Ken slumped next to him and Aya leaned against the wall by the door, and then Manx started the message from Persia.

"Men of Weiss..."

Youji had lost count of the number of times he had heard those words from the silhouette behind the desk. If he was honest with himself, he didn't want to count. It was a lie anyway. At first he had been the only man in Weiss, now there were two, but Ken and Omi were still just boys. The only thing, he thought, that the four members of Weiss actually had in common was that they took orders to do murder from a shadow, for reasons none of them really understood.

Then he forced it all back down, deep into the dark part of himself where he only dared look when he was too drunk or too lonely to stop himself, and concentrated on the briefing. Boys disappearing from all over Tokyo; boys younger than Omi, the oldest fifteen and the youngest eight. A dozen that Kritiker could count for certain, and all of them in the past few months. Two bodies had been found, buried in cheap coffins in the woods just outside Tokyo. Each skeleton had at least one bone missing leading the police to blame a cult, but Kritiker had discovered the truth. The killer was, in fact, Takeshi Nakajima, a popular young artist fashioning sculptures out of, amongst other things, bone; bone that a Kritiker agent had determined came from a prepubescent boy. The other target was the artist's patron, Gabriel Morin, the cultural attaché at the French embassy, who was helping abduct the boys and using his diplomatic privileges to protect himself and Nakajima.

"I've heard about Nakajima," Youji explained as they left the basement. "I was out with a girl from the _Asahi_ last night. Sumiko's the cultural reporter and she wouldn't shut up about him after I told her I did a bit of art. Of course, I didn't mention I just did sketching and knew nothing about sculpture."

"What's a cultural attaché do?" Ken asked.

"I don't know, Ken-kun," Omi replied. "I'll get into his records at the embassy and tell you when I find out."

"I hope you can read French," Aya said.

* * *

Ken drew the first shift following Morin the next day; on Thursdays he went to a particular food shop on the edge of Shibuya for special supplies. Ken knew the area well, it was, he said, a good place to food from around the world; there were not that many places in Tokyo for a Frenchman to buy something to eat that reminded him of home. Omi, as far as his school was concerned, would develop another nasty case of the flu while he set to work on the computer, slicing his way into the targets' lives with the precision of a surgeon, seeking, with infinite care, the point of greatest vulnerability, and that was where the surgeon analogy came to a frightening end. Youji claimed he would do some research of his own, and took Sumiko out for another date and let her tell him about how wonderful she thought Nakajima's work was. She clearly very rarely met men she could talk to about the art she loved, and expressed her gratitude for his enduring attention in no uncertain terms.

He drove home at two in the morning, listening to the Seven's engine purr in the darkness, and wondered what it was that was bothering him. It was nothing that he could name or point to, nothing he knew for certain, but it was there. It was more than the dawning realisation, as he arrived home, that with Omi on the computer and Ken tailing the target, he would have to get up at seven to open the shop with Aya. There was something obvious, something right in front of him that was bothering him, something that didn't make sense. The instinct that he relied on to keep him alive was demanding his attention, and he was tempted to wake up Ken and talk it over with him, but knew he would get nothing but abuse for his trouble. He fell into bed, staring at the ceiling, wishing he had something to go on beyond the certainty that something was wrong with the mission.

The next morning, all he felt was tired. Two cups of coffee, five minutes under a cold shower and a cigarette woke him up enough to get to breakfast and down to the shop, but he still felt like the outside world was happening at arm's length. Aya gave him a disinterested look that said the other man had expected nothing less, Omi disappeared into the basement without a word, and Ken, as he prepared to leave, suggested that maybe Youji should think about whether he had a morning shift before he went out for the night. Youji smiled back, pushed up his sunglasses, and prepared to confront the morning rush at the shop.

"I'll see you later, guys," Ken said as he picked up his headphones.

"Be careful, Ken," Youji called after him.

He did not know why he said it. Ken gave him a confused look, and then a cautious nod. Youji heard the back door open and then close, reassuring himself that Ken was as well trained as he was, that the boy had the reflexes of a cat and was about as easy to knock down as a brick wall. Then he wondered why he was so worried.

He pushed his sunglasses up to keep out the morning light and lounged by the cash register. The shop was already full of schoolgirls, but Youji gratefully realised it would be half an hour – forty-five minutes at most – before they actually had to go to school. Several of them asked after Omi and Ken, and he did his best to be friendly, but they were used to him being tired in the mornings. Aya was dealing with the girls who actually wanted flowers, encouraging purchases as only he could.

"Buy some flowers or leave."

He smiled and thought about dozing off, but that was not to be.

"Youji, can you wrap these flowers for me?"

Youji blinked and looked up at the dark haired girl standing calmly over him. He recognised the voice instantly, no other girl in the shop spoke with that kind of confidence.

"And when you've wrapped them," Ouka continued, "can you give them to Omi and tell him that I hope he feels better soon?"

There was no sign of Aya, so Youji dragged himself to his feet and did his best to organise the flowers. He made a mess of it, but Ouka politely ignored this. Youji Kudou was many things, but a great florist was not one of them.

"Will you tell me what he says when he gets them?" Ouka asked. "Not if it's something strange though. Omi does say the strangest things to me."

For a second, Youji froze. He was suddenly wide awake, and his mind finally latched on to what had been eluding it. Ouka had that effect on Omi, but Ken said strange things all the time. He'd been thinking last night that he wanted to talk to Ken about it, that Ken had a way of seeing the obvious, but Ken already had. Ken had said it. He'd put his finger on the nub of what Youji suddenly realised had been bothering him, and none of them had noticed.

He felt Ouka's curious glance, but forced himself to say it was nothing, take her money and promise to deliver the flowers. And once he was sure she was gone, he'd turned and bolted into the back room, dropping the flowers as he did so and hurrying down the stairs into the basement.

Omi looked up from the computer. "Youji-kun?" he said. "I've been looking at Morin's records at the embassy and there's something strange about them."

"Call Ken back!" Youji told him. "Now!"

"I just tried to get through," Omi replied, "but Ken-kun's not answering."

"Damn!" Youji exclaimed. "I'm going to get him."

"He's only been following Morin for half an hour," Omi told him. "What's wrong?"

"Ken saw it." Youji grabbed his coat. "A cultural attaché couldn't hide a murderer. Cultural attaché isn't even a real job. You said there's something odd about his records? Keep digging and you'll find out who he really is. And keep trying to get through to Ken!"

Omi nodded, fear in the big blue eyes. "What's wrong, Youji-kun?"

Youji was halfway through the back door, pulling his coat on, realising he hadn't actually answered Omi's question. All he could think about was getting to Ken, knowing that the Tokyo traffic would mean he would have to take the subway. He only just had enough sense left to turn and tell Omi the answer.

"He's a spy, Omi. The Frenchman's a spy."


	2. Why Have You Forsaken Me?

Chapter Two: Why Have You Forsaken Me?

Youji came back into the Koneko walking like a man on the brink of death. He pushed the door opened by leaning against it and his feet scraping the smooth floor. He stumbled down the stairs, leaning against the wall just outside the door of the briefing room, then took a deep breath and walked in.

"I was too late," he said. "The Frenchman's got Ken."

"Are you sure, Youji-kun?" Omi asked.

Youji just nodded. "What did you find out?"

"You were right," Omi told him. "The records I got from the embassy were false. I only just found his real records. I'm going through them now."

Looking over his shoulder, Youji could see a screen full of Roman letters. Beside the computer, there was a page of notes written in Omi's precise _kanji_, all but the four Roman letters in the middle that Youji had been afraid he would see.

He lit a cigarette and scanned the notes. It worse than he had thought, much worse. He raked his other hand through his hair and stared at the back of Omi's head as he went on working through the translation. Then he heard a sound on the steps behind him and spun to see Aya standing in the doorway with Manx. The woman was standing there watching them as if it was just another day, as if nothing was wrong. As cool and calm as ever. And though the day before Youji had found this intriguing, now it made him furious. Before he realised what he was doing he had crossed the room and was standing a few inches from her.

"A spy," he hissed. "The artist isn't the problem. You sent us after spy."

"I'm sorry," Manx said.

"You're _sorry_?"

"Our information was incomplete," Manx said. "I'm sorry we couldn't get you all the data before you were assigned the mission."

"Tell that to Ken."

Youji wanted to hit her, he wanted to grab her, he wanted to shake her until he saw the facade crack and finally found out if there was anything human behind those cool eyes. And he hated himself for it.

"Look at this." He shoved Omi's notes in her face and stepped back. "He's not the embassy cultural attaché. You see those Roman letters in the middle? He works for the DGSE, the French secret service. He's a legal spy with the cover of a job title that doesn't say anything about what he actually does. All the embassies have got one, the Americans have a CIA man, the British have one from MI6 and we've got someone from the DIO in ours. This guy has been trained by the best; he was running Cold War counterintelligence operations before any of us were born. He'd have made Ken immediately, the boy's good but he's just a kid."

"How do you know that?" Aya inquired.

"I read a lot of books," Youji told him.

He dropped heavily onto the sofa and raised the cigarette to his lips, but stopped before he could take a drag. The cigarette had burned down to the filter, there was nothing left now but ashes. He stared at it sadly and then stubbed it out and lit another one before looking up at Manx.

"Tell the man behind the desk he's fucked up this time."

Omi looked up from the computer "Do you think Ken-kun is alive, Youji-kun?"

"He's alive," Aya said.

"How do you know, Aya-kun?"

"Because the Frenchman won't kill him," Aya told him. "He'll want to know why Hidaka was following him. He won't stop until he knows. He won't kill Hidaka until he's certain he has no more use for him."

"Ken-kun wouldn't tell him anything," Omi said.

Youji looked up. "Yes he will. The Frenchman's not going to stop if Ken just tells him 'no'. He'll find a way to make him talk, especially once he realises that his life's at stake. And once he finds out about us..." He tailed off and suddenly the full implications of what this meant hit him. "Oh no..."

He looked up at Manx, and he could see she knew it too, as did Aya. An instant later, he heard the sharp intake of breath to his left as Omi realised the unthinkable: what Ken knew could destroy them all.

"Evacuate." Aya spoke first. "Tell Persia to get every Kritiker agent out of Tokyo. Especially you and Birman. Then he has to leave too. You're all in danger."

"How much does Ken know?" Manx asked.

"He knows you," Youji said.

Manx held his eyes for a second and then nodded. "We'll evacuate."

"We've got to figure out how to get Ken back," Youji stood up again. "If the Frenchman wants to interrogate him then he's got to be keeping him somewhere. He can't keep him at the embassy without someone asking questions, so that leaves his own house, or the artist's place. But he's probably holding him wherever they held the other kids they took so –"

"No."

Youji rounded on Manx. "_No_?"

"Siberian's recovery is not your mission," Manx stated calmly. "Until you are told otherwise your priority is still the termination of the targets. Do you understand?"

Aya nodded.

"Yes, Manx," Omi said.

The woman's gaze turned to Youji. "Balinese?"

Youji stared angrily at Manx, but he couldn't hold her gaze. Worse still, he knew she was right. Capture or death was a risk they took every time they accepted a mission, and the rest of the team would carry on regardless. The words from the old American TV show came back to him: _if any of you are caught or killed, the secretary will disavow all knowledge_.

He dropped his head in surrender. "I understand."

"We need a plan quickly," Aya said. "Morin can't go to war with Kritiker if he's dead."

Omi nodded, turning back to the computer. "But if he's interrogating Ken-kun, why would he come out? Especially if he knows that we're looking for him."

"He won't come out if he knows someone's looking for him," Youji sighed. "And neither will Nakajima. We're going to have to find a reason for them to come out... and I think I know one."

"What is it, Youji-kun?"

"Sumiko told me that Nakajima is having a private viewing of his sculptures tomorrow night. It'll in a new gallery near the French Embassy, and it's being hosted by the embassy itself. So the artist will have to be there, and so will the Frenchman, because there's no way Nakajima can't be there, and if one is there then the other will."

"Tomorrow night?" Aya inquired. "What if he breaks Ken before then?"

"He won't."

"What if he does?"

"Manx, go now," Youji told her. "Warn everyone, then get out of the city. Buy a plane ticket to somewhere far away and if you haven't heard from us by Sunday, get out of the country. We'll have to keep on going as usual. Aya, ask Momoe to go home and we'll mind the shop for today and tomorrow."

Aya shook his head. "We should close. We should be ready."

"Aya, we shouldn't attract attention if we don't have to, and he's not attack a shop full of schoolgirls in broad daylight in the middle of Shibuya."

"How do you know, Youji-kun?" Omi asked.

"We wouldn't."

Manx nodded, satisfied that they knew what they were doing. "Kritiker will prepare for the worst. Good luck."

"Thanks." Youji smiled. "And Manx... I'm sorry."

She might have smiled, she was gone before Youji was sure. As she went out the back door and Aya went to talk to Momoe, Youji turned back to Omi.

"Please, Omi, please think of a plan before tomorrow night. And please try to come up with a way we can find Ken along the way."


	3. The Power of the Dogs

Chapter Three: The Power of the Dogs

It was a bad plan. To the best of Youji's knowledge, Omi had never even briefed them on any plan he had taken less than a week to concoct, think over, test, change and then think of backup after backup in case something happened that he hadn't thought of. The deadline of the viewing had given him a little more than thirty-six hours to think of and implement a plan for intercepting and isolating the targets. It was hurried, risky, and there were far too many things that could go wrong, but it was the only plan they had.

The first question was whether they would get to implement the plan at all. The rest of the day was spent in nervous anticipation. While Omi desperately planned downstairs, Youji and Aya stood in the shop, forcing themselves to behave like there was nothing the matter. By the end of the day, Youji was passed caring whether the customers noticed; he was tired of flinching every time the bell above the door tinkled, and watching Aya's eyes flicker towards the door of the back room, behind which the other man had concealed his sword.

That night they practically barricaded the back door and agreed that they should keep watch. Youji took the first shift, sitting up in the living room with a view of the street outside and a book he could not focus on reading. He stayed there, watching the night go by, wanting more than anything to pray to the god that Ken followed to keep his friend safe, and keep him strong.

Eventually Aya came to relieve him, and Youji went to bed. He couldn't be sure what he saw next were dreams or memories: Omi trying to get Ken to stop hitting him when they had first met; the kitchen crammed with plates of what looked like everything Ken had ever cooked, though Ken himself was nowhere to be seen; his own voice, telling Ken to leave Yuriko and let her forget about him, advice he sometimes wished Ken had ignored; a target called Kase lying on his face against the concrete in a pool of his own blood (Youji had never asked why it had hurt Ken so much to kill the man); finally there was Ken himself, alone in the darkness, hands clasped together and whispering a prayer that Youji couldn't understand.

Friday passed slowly, another day of tension where Youji found himself almost wishing something would happen. The sky had been getting darker and darker ever since the morning, and early in the afternoon it finally started to rain. After that, they didn't get many customers and there was little to do but sit and wait until the evening finally came. There had been no sign of anything unusual, but none of them were certain whether this was good or bad.

It was still raining when Sumiko picked Youji up that evening. The rain provided a good excuse not to take the Seven, he had claimed water might well soak through the cloth roof. On any other night he would have complimented her dress, her hair and probably her shoes as well during the journey, but tonight he was too preoccupied. They had no idea whether or not Ken had broken and the targets knew what they looked like, and Youji didn't like taking her into a potentially dangerous situation, but they had little choice. As it was, he apologised, told her that he'd had a long day, and might have to leave suddenly.

The little Nissan took them through the thickening evening traffic into the middle of Minato, to a converted apartment building just up the street from the French embassy that had been rented to host the viewing. The interior was well lit and well decorated, wide open rooms with wooden floors where pedestals had been set up displaying the sculptures. Youji's stomach lurched as he thought of this, suddenly fearing that the artist might be exhibiting a new piece made from bone taken from his friend.

Youji forced himself to bury all his fear and thoughts of what might go wrong like he did before every mission and walked into the room with his head up, the pretty-boy arm candy of a well-known journalist. There was a large picture of Nakajima on one wall, smiling happy down at the room. The man himself was on the other side of the room, standing beside the bar, but he looked far from the happy figure in the picture, uncertain, nervous and a little haggard even in his smart new clothes. He looked, Youji thought, like someone who'd been asleep and had been suddenly woken and wasn't sure what was going on. Youji knew this would just be put down to the artistic temperament, but he wished he knew exactly what was causing the nervousness.

He distracted himself by glancing at his watch and looking at the guests. There were several other people he recognised from their culture columns, other sculptors and a few European men and women that Youji presumed were from the embassy.

The sculptures themselves, the cause of all of this, were modern variations on the traditional Japanese _netsuke_ style: small representations of animals carved from bone, ivory or wood and hung from a robe to secure a small storage box. But these were different, a base of cream polished bone melded with a mixture of polished wood and manmade materials like metal and plastic. They had been carefully combined into abstract representations of living things from frogs to fish, people to plants, all of them gently glittering with light reflected from tiny shards of minerals and glass. They were, Youji had to admit, beautiful.

Distracted by something he assumed was a snake, Youji heard Sumiko awkwardly say "Bonsoir," turned, and came face to face with the Frenchman.

He looked even more generically European in the flesh than he had on the video. Dark hair and dark eyes, skin with a faint colour to it. But there was something in those dark eyes, visible for just an instant, that made Youji think of Omi, of a killer hiding behind a mask of innocence. He could feel the man analysing him, but that night the assassin Balinese was buried so deeply inside the playboy Youji Kudou that even the Frenchman would not be able to see it.

And in that instant, all of Youji's faith in Ken was vindicated. If Ken had told the Frenchman anything at all about Weiss, he was sure it would have been enough for the Frenchman to recognise his enemy when he was exchanging bows with him. Youji was as much a master of reading people as the spy, and he saw no reaction at all when their eyes met or when the other man heard his name.

The exchange of pleasantries lasted only a minute and then the Frenchman disappeared into the crowd towards the artist. Youji waited until he was gone before letting out a slow breath and turning back to Sumiko, smiling broadly. His hand dropped into his pocket and pressed down the hidden radio transmitter.

"Is that Nakajima's patron?" he asked, and then turned off the transmitter.

"Oh yes." Sumiko nodded. "He's the embassy cultural attaché. You see those pieces there and there? In return, Nakajima does work in the more European style."

Youji listened to Sumiko talk about this new take on traditional Japanese style and the possibility of the artist being exhibited in France, waiting for the other two to make their entrances. Youji's job had been the most dangerous, to see if the Frenchman recognised him or not and the words over the radio had been a code. If Youji thought the target had made him, he would make a statement over the short transmission; if he thought they were safe, he would ask a question.

It was five minutes before he noticed Omi. The boy's blond hair was almost comically organised and he was wearing a suit looked as if it had been assembled from bits of a school uniform, but with a jacket that was a few sizes too large. Omi had always looked younger than his actual age, something Youji had made jokes about in the past, but tonight he looked like a fourteen year old boy trying to sneak into an exhibition for adults by looking eighteen. Which was exactly the impression Youji had helped him create.

Somehow Youji knew it would be the Frenchman whose attention Omi's presence would attract. Omi had only spent a few minutes harmlessly wandering around the room, staring at the sculptures and acting how a fourteen year old thought an older boy would act in a place like this, when Youji saw the Frenchman watching him. The older man left the artist by the bar and went over to talk to the boy.

Youji was content to let Sumiko take him around the room, staring into every one of the glass cases, talking amiably to several other reporters and embassy staff. They all agreed that the work was beautiful, even though it made Youji wince invisibly to talk about it, but all the while he was keeping an eye on the reflections in the glass, which allowed him to see the entire room without turning his head.

It was in one of these reflections that he first saw Aya.

The shock of red hair was easily visible behind the bar where it had not been several minutes before, Aya was dressed as a waiter and acting as if he belonged there. Youji had lost count of the number of times Weiss had taken advantage of freelance catering assistants but, he realised with a wince, it was usually Ken's task to wear the uniform and serve drinks or food all night. In order to help him hide in plain sight, Youji had told Aya to make a fuss about being called away from pliant date to do the shift, but he doubted Aya had actually done that. It didn't matter though; he was behind the bar, that was the important part.

By that time, Omi was chatting amiably to the Frenchman who made a gesture to the bar. Omi nodded enthusiastically and the Frenchman wandered towards the bar, returning a few minutes later with what looked like coke for Omi. From the faint twinge on Omi's face as he drank, Youji could tell there was more in the glass than just soda.

He left Sumiko with her friend from another paper and went to get them drinks. "I don't suppose you know how to make a good martini?" he asked one of the barmen.

The man shook his head. "Tonight, sir, I could only make you a bad one, and you wouldn't want that. What can I get you instead?"

"One vodka and coke, a beer and a gin with a dash of lime juice."

As the barman bent over to make the drinks, Youji looked over his shoulder and caught Aya's eye. For just an instant, the other man's gaze flickered to his left, then he gave Youji a nod. Youji just had enough time to return it before his drinks order was ready. That nod confirmed what Youji had assumed, the Frenchman was putting alcohol in Omi's drinks, but Aya was doing his best to water them down. And because Omi left as little as possible to chance, he had also taken a special compound that would block most of the effects of the alcohol for several hours.

The those hours passed slowly. Youji forced himself not to notice, to act like it was just a normal Friday night out at an art gallery with a pretty, intelligent woman and that he wasn't on a mission and Omi wasn't being doused with alcohol by a sociopathic pederast and that he was fighting the growing feeling that he'd never see Ken again. The hardest part was not glancing at the Frenchman and Omi to see what was going on, he knew that even here the spy's instincts would be acute enough to pick up the surveillance. All he could do was wait and hope, consoling himself with watching the artist, who seemed to be becoming more and more uncomfortable.

Eventually it was the artist who broke. He and the Frenchman had a hurried exchange in the corner of the gallery, during which they both gestured at Omi. Whatever they were saying, the Frenchman won the debate – as, Youji suspected, he always did – and the artist nodded meekly and headed towards the exit. The Frenchman went back to Omi and said something to him, Omi nodded enthusiastically, and the older man took him by the arm and led him out. Youji looked across the room and met Aya's eyes for just a second as Aya headed for the door behind the door.

"I'm sorry, I've got to go," he whispered to Sumiko.

"Okay," she said, sounding disappointed. "Call me tomorrow?"

"Sure." Youji gave her his best smile and strolled out.

He found Aya standing outside, half way through a cigarette, out of the rain in the shade of another building. "Grey Mercedes heading west," Aya told him.

They hurried through the rain to the Porsche. Aya followed the route he had seen the Mercedes take while Youji flipped open the panel on the dashboard and looked at the screen. The tiny chip that Omi had concealed inside his tie was not big enough to give an actual GPS position, but it did give them a bearing and distance. This was another redundancy, Youji could see the unmistakable shape of the German saloon ahead of them, and he was confident that those inside were unaware that they were being hunted. Even in close pursuit, the Porsche was just another set of headlights in the darkness and rain.


	4. A Worm and Not a Man

Chapter Four: A Worm and Not a Man

They followed the Mercedes to a large house on the edge of Minato Ward. It was one of the three places Omi had thought they would be based, and the most likely, the artist's studio and the Frenchman's residence being too public. It was a large, modern house that the artist had moved into only six months before, bought with the increasing profits from his work. Its low walls bounded off a large garden complete with an ornamental flowerbed and a pond with a fountain in it. Most of the building's rooms had large windows, but the largest windows belonged to an enclosed seating area with a wooden roof that looked out into the garden. It was, Youji thought, deliberately designed to look like the sort of place people thought an artist should live.

Aya would make his way through the seating area to the back door of the kitchen while Youji got in through the basement area and went up into the house. Getting to the window was easy, if they had gone to the Frenchman's residence there would have been at least one guard to get past, but there were none here. Now the lights were on inside, neither of the door Aya had to use nor the window Youji gently prised open were alarmed.

He slipped through the window into the basement, wincing when he realised his clothes were now soaked and his jacket smeared with grass stains. He pushed his damp hair back, adjusted his sunglasses and looked around the room. In the light form his torch he a small drafting studio with a desk covered in sketches, diagrams and scribbled lists of materials. There were recognisable sketches pinned to the walls and small shelves had wooden models of the final artworks crowded onto them.

There was the stairway door to Youji's right, but the room was smaller than it had looked on the plans, and that made him curious. It only took a quick scan with the torch to realise that there was a homemade wall halfway through the basement with a thick metal door. Youji promised himself he would be diverted for no more than a minute – enough time to make sure Aya was in position – and carefully opened the door, which slid open silently despite its weight.

The smell hit him as soon as the door opened. It was a smell he could never forget no matter how hard he tried, a smell that brought back memories of Maki, of Asuka, and of the foul place that had been the death of them both. Blood, sweat and fear mingled together into a potent cocktail that made him want to retch. He didn't want to look any closer, but he had to.

The walls of the room were bare stone, as was the floor, except that it was titled and there was a hole for a drain in the far corner. The room was dominated by several tables in the centre, the largest of them what Youji suddenly realised was an operating table, bearing trays carrying an obscene mixture surgical instruments and sculpting tools. There were thick straps on the table too, and a hook for a gag. But no sign of Ken. Leaning against the wall were shaped wooden panels wrapped in white sheets, the components for the coffins with a pair of shovels balanced next to them. And against the walls of the room were several large sculptures, but while the ones at the viewing had been beautiful, these seemed like figures from a nightmare: whole bones, some of them clearly from animals, fixed in a mass of a dark plastic and twisting rusted metal, glittering in the darkness like the pillars at the gates of Hades.

Youji had to keep himself from running, forcing himself to walk calmly and quietly away, forcing himself to avoid the thought of Ken trapped in that terrible room and not to wonder where he was now. He left the room, breathing deeply of air clean of that horrible smell and then left the basement and crept slowly up the stairs towards the light.

The door opened into a corridor at the base of the stairs leading up towards the bedrooms, only a little way from the entrance atrium. At the other end of the corridor, hung with several generic prints of paintings from conflicting styles around the world, was the dining room and the kitchen, and from there he could hear voices.

Omi was standing in the kitchen between the artist and the Frenchman. Each had a wide glass of dark alcohol, which Omi and the Frenchman were sipping while the artist took deep swallows of his, but most of his earlier nervousness had vanished. Now he was standing behind Omi and scribbling something on a spare piece of paper while looking the boy up and down.

"This is really nice," Omi said cheerfully. "What is it?"

"Frapin Cognac," the Frenchman answered. "It's very expensive."

"I think I might have had too much," Omi confessed, leaning against the table.

"Don't worry." The Frenchman smiled, and there was hunger in his eyes. "You'll feel fine tomorrow, and I'll take you on a tour of my friend's studio."

"That's nice of you," Youji said, stepping calmly into the doorway. "Just the thing after a long night of hard sodomy."

Both the Frenchman and the artist turned and stared at him in astonishment. The spy moved first, reaching across the table towards one of the kitchen knives when the door behind him burst open. He turned again, stepping towards Aya when a dart from Omi's sleeve struck him in the leg and dropped him to his knees, the blade of the katana dropping down and resting gently against his throat. Youji had been preparing to throw his wire around the artist, but the man pressed himself against the fridge, frozen to the spot with fear. An instant's thought and Youji moved anyway, but the artist barely noticed being lashed to the table by his left leg.

With him secured, the trio stared down at the Frenchman. He met their gazes without fear or defeat, no shocked realisation and no trace of the shattered pride of a pathologically careful man with so many years of experience laid low by three boys and his own lust. There was nothing in those eyes except defiance, but then they had expected nothing less from a man like that, one determined to die without showing fear.

"You know I'll never tell you anything," he hissed.

"I know," Youji said, and nodded to Aya.

A faint narrowing of the eyes, a slight change in grip on the sword's hilt, and the katana made a single, effortless cut.

The Frenchman's eyes bulged. He opened his mouth but nothing came out but a hiss. His hands clamped to his throat and then he fell forward. Rivulets of blood tricked through his fingers and across the pure white kitchen floor.

Watching this, his mouth open in horror, the artist suddenly remembered the use of his limbs. He took a single, hurried step away towards the door, then the wire bit into his leg and brought him thudding to the floor. He tried to crawl away, whimpering in pain, but the wire dug deeper and all he could do was roll onto his back, eyes wide with terror, hands raised in surrender.

"Please," he whispered. "Please."

The three members of Weiss stared impassively down at him. Youji let an inch of wire show from his watch. Omi gripped a dart between his fingers. Aya held the katana casually in one hand, patterns of light reflected by the blade dancing in the artist's eyes. The only sound of the room was a slow gurgling hiss that seemed deafening.

"It wasn't me." The artist's eyes flickered back and forth over the group and finally settled on Youji. "It wasn't my idea. I was just using animal bones for my work, but one day there was an accident with one of Gabriel's boys. He said he needed my help after all he'd done for me, so I helped him hide the body but before I did we took one of the bones out and it was the most perfect base I'd ever seen. I put it one of my sculptures just to see how it would look, I couldn't let it go to waste, and it fitted so much better than the bases I'd been using and everyone said it was the best work I'd ever done. But I didn't kill anyone, Gabriel took care of everything. We had to use bones from children, adults just had too much wear and didn't polish so well, but girls were too fragile. I never asked Gabriel what he did, he just brought me them and I picked the bones I wanted for my next project and then we buried them."

He finally stopped talking long enough to breathe and realised that the three assassins were just staring down at him, as silent and emotionless as statues, immune to his pleading story. Youji only took his eyes off the artist for long enough to look at Omi, and had to work to keep his expression empty as the boy nodded. He knelt down, waited until the artist's attention was focussed on him, and finally asked his question.

"Where is Ken?"

"Ken?" The artist exclaimed. "Ken? Ken! The other one, the boy? He's alive! Gabriel brought him here and tried to make him say why he was following him, but he wouldn't. But he's alive!"

Youji forced himself not to slam the artist's head against the floor. Instead he said nothing for a moment, letting the artist listen to the choking, bubbling, wheezing sound from the crumpled figure behind them. It was much quieter now.

"Where?" He asked.

"In the forest," the artist muttered, afraid to speak. "Just outside the city. He wouldn't talk so Gabriel had an idea. We took him out there early this morning, we were going to come back this evening but then I remembered the viewing. He's alive, though. He is alive, Gabriel made sure he would be."

The uncertainty, the fear of saying what had happened beyond the normal terror in the artist's eyes, and Youji suddenly understood. He remembered the wooden panels in the basement, easily assembled to form a makeshift coffin, and the shoves next to them, shovels covered in fresh earth. It was all he could do not to scream.

"You... buried him?"

The artist nodded dumbly, and there was a flurry of motion behind Youji. Omi was kneeling next to the artist, a dart in his hand and the point hovering over the artist's right eye.

"Listen to me, Nakajima, you are going to show us where Ken-kun is, you are going to take us there, and you are going to help get him back. Do you understand?"

Again, all the artist did was nod dumbly, going cross-eyed trying to watch the dart. "Very good," Omi said, then straightened up. "Youji-kun, could you take Nakajima to the car and have him show you where Ken-kun is on the map? Aya-kun and I will get the shoves, gather up blankets and fill as many bottles as we can with water."

"Here," Youji said, "start with this one."

He picked the oddly shaped bottle of cognac off the table and calmly poured the tens of thousands of yen's worth of alcohol onto the floor, mixing with the pool of blood. Only then that he notice that the wheezing, gurgling gasps had finally stopped.

"Come with me." Youji cut the wire with the cutters he kept in his pocket and dragged the artist to his feet. "Don't speak until I tell you."

He dragged the artist by the shoulder out through the door and into the rain. Calmly flipping a loop of razor wire around the other man's wrist – just in case – Youji pulled him over to the Porsche and retrieved the maps from the glove box. The artist remembered the place well enough, and, pointed to a point along a single winding road that led up into Sayama forest outside Tokyo, about fifty miles away.

Afterwards, they just stood in the rain beside the car. "Can... we wait... somewhere dry?" the artist asked.

Youji smiled at him.

When Aya and Omi hurried out of the house, carrying blankets, spades and several bottles of water between them, they found Youji sitting in the passenger seat of the car. He opened the door and helped them put the water and the blankets into the back seat before Aya looked around.

"Where is he?"

"Out of the rain," Youji told him.

He took the spades from Aya, walked around the front of the car and opened the trunk. He gestured calmly to the artist, curled up in the cramped space inside, which wouldn't even have been big enough for him if Aya had not had it expanded. The man opened his mouth to speak but then Youji threw the spades in on top of him, cutting off any protest in a rush of expelled air.

"He showed me exactly where we need to go," Youji told Omi.

"Please..." the artist whimpered. "I –"

"Deep breath," Youji said, and slammed the trunk.

Omi scrambled into the back seat beside the supplies. Youji pulled the map out and indicated the route he'd been planning to Aya, who agreed.

"You're always saying how good this car is," Youji muttered. "Prove it. Drive."


	5. The Dust of Death

Chapter Five: The Dust of Death

By day, Sayama forest was a beautiful, green respite from the urban sprawl of Tokyo where Youji had more than once taken a girlfriend for a romantic picnic. By night, in the rain, it was a scene from a nightmare; trees forming sinister shapes in the darkness, branches reaching out like grasping arms, leaves whispering with the voices of lost souls.

The Porsche came to a stop at the end of a winding track off one of the major roads through the forest. It was barely more than a wide path, only just enough space for the car to drive down without the branches scratching the paint. The last stages of the journey had been very uncomfortable on the sports car's firm suspension, and Youji was glad when they finally found the place that the artist had described. It could have been worse, he reflected sardonically; he could have been locked in the trunk.

He got out of the car, opened the trunk and pulled the battered, whimpering artist out and let him drop into the mud. "We're here."

The artist wiped the rain out of his eyes and pointed hesitantly left off the road between the trees. Youji saw a rut in the ground that must have been made by the Frenchman's car. Aya lined the car up and flipped its headlights up to high beams as Youji and Omi retrieved torches and walked into the trees, shoving the artist in front of them. They swept the torches across the ground, moving without speaking hoping to see or hear the air pump the artist told them was keeping Ken alive.

He should have known it would be Omi. Keeping his attention focused equally between the rain-soaked ground and the artist, Omi's foot caught something. He nearly fell flat on his face, except that Youji was able to catch him first. The artist managed half a laugh before the furious glares of the pair silenced him, and then they turned their attention to the pipe and small black whirring box that had caught his foot. Youji stepped back and swept the torch of the rectangle of churned ground that they had been standing in.

"Aya!" he yelled. "Bring the spades!"

Aya struggled out of the glare from the headlights, carrying all the supplies they had brought with them, including the shovels. He dumped them on the ground as Youji flicked his wrist and lashed the artist to a tree by his neck, then picked up one of the spades and attacked the sodden ground.

"Ken!" he shouted. "Ken, we're coming!"

He heard no response, he had been hoping for one but he hadn't really expected it. He didn't know whether his friend was alive or dead down there, but he didn't want to wait any longer to find out. The shovel's grip tore at his palms, mud splattered over his pristine shoes and trousers, but he didn't care, wrenching chunks of damp earth upwards and hurling them sideways into the darkness, shouting his friend's name as he did so. Beside him he was aware of Omi digging too, but the boy was unable to shift as much mud; Aya, meanwhile, was digging more calmly and considerately around the edge of the rectangle. Progress seemed agonisingly slow, they didn't seem to be get any deeper, there always seemed to be more mud to move.

After a while he became aware that it was just him digging, the hole and become too deep for the others, he was nearly four feet down now. His muscles screamed in protest, but Youji kept on digging, gasping for the damp air, the rain in his eyes keeping him from seeing anything except the dark earth around him, and the all-consuming shadows. Maybe it was really him who was entombed, and he was not digging down but up; all this was just a desperate struggle to break free of the underworld and see the sun again.

Then his shovel struck something solid, and the outside world came back. "I've found him!" he called up.

He was suddenly aware of how tired he was. He wanted nothing more than to slump against his shovel and rest, but he had to uncover the whole length of the coffin lid before he would let himself. He shovelled the mud away from the dull wood of the coffin's surface and then heard a thump as Omi landed in the hole next to him.

"I can take it from here, Youji-kun," he said.

"I'll help," Youji responded.

"Youji-kun, I can't open the lid if you're standing on it!"

Youji nodded in defeat and just managed to clamber out of the hole with a little help from Aya. He sat on the edge, slumped in exhaustion with only just enough energy left to shine his torch down to help Omi use some of the tools Aya had brought from the car to remove the long screws from the coffin lid. For a while, all he could hear was the scrabbling in the hole and the whir of the air pump. Every now and then he would call Ken's name, but there was no reply.

"He didn't make it," Aya said.

"No." Youji shook his head. "Not till we get it open."

Finally, Omi put all four screws into his pocket and straightened up. "Youji-kun, Aya-kun, I need your help getting the lid off."

Youji slid into the hole with Aya. The three of them managed to get their fingers around the edge of the heavy wooden lid, and on Omi's signal, pulled it free of the sticky mud, wrenched it upwards and pushed it out of the hole. Then they shone the torches down into the wooden cage.

"Ken? Oh god. Ken?"

The figure in the coffin might have been a corpse. The naked skin was pale and lifeless, the lips were chapped, the eyes were half closed, the hands and feet were torn and bloody. A terrible stench drifted up from the coffin, blood, sweat and human waste mixed with stale, dead air. Perhaps it would be better for him to be dead than to still be trapped in that abused and shattered shell.

And for a minute they were not sure which he was. The stupid physics problem of the cat in the box suddenly intruded into Youji's mind as he stared down at his friend. Then, looking carefully, he was just able to see the faintest movement of the chest, mouth and nostrils. The bare skin trembled under the caress of the rain. The lips moved to whisper words Youji couldn't hear. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the eyes opened and they fought to focus on the source of the bright light.

"Aya-kun, help me lift him out," Omi ordered. "Pass him to Youji-kun."

An awkward five minutes followed, Omi and Aya struggling to lift Ken up enough to heave him out of the coffin that barely had enough room in it for him. Ken was limp, unable to move, and they had to be careful not to let his battered hands and feet strike the walls of the box or the hole. Finally, Aya dragged the body out of the hole, Omi holding his legs, and they both raised him up into Youji's waiting arms.

He was still heavy. Ken had always been heavy, and now he was hanging limp, although Youji could feel the muscles struggling to contract after an age of stillness. Youji held him up in the rain, letting the falling water wash over him, then pulling his body against his own chest, feeling his slow breathing and racing heartbeat through his soaked dinner shirt. Ken responded to the warmth, curling up against him, his eyes focussing on Youji's face as Youji's hair caressed his skin.

"Azrael."

It was barely a whisper. Youji didn't even see Ken's lips move as he spoke the word.

"It's me, Ken," Youji said, lowering him gently to the ground. "It's Youji. It's okay, Ken. It's over, you're safe."

"Youji?" Ken blinked. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

He was shivering now, trying to curl up on the cold mud. Youji straightened up and turned towards the artist, who had watched the entire scene without speaking, hardly daring to breathe for fear of the razor wire around his neck.

"Take your clothes off," Youji told him.

"What? Why?"

Youji calmly raised his right hand and extended his index finger, pointing at the artist's face. "Strip, you bastard, or I'll tear your eyes out."

The artist whimpered, nodding desperately in spite of the wire pulling at his skin. Released from the wire, he tore off his coat and threw it to Youji, then pulled frantically the buttons of his white shirt, then his shoes and trousers. Finally, he stood here wearing only his underpants and socks, arms wrapped around his waist, shivering in the rain. Youji was tempted to demand those too, but knew Ken would not approve. It didn't matter, as he carefully put the too-large clothes on Ken, and listened to his friend's whispered apologies, he realised that the artist would soon suffer a far more terrible fate; behind him, he was aware that Omi was thoughtfully examining the air pump.

While Youji was putting the shirt on Ken, the boy tried to sit up. He managed to half extend his arms, then his eyes rolled and then he slumped backwards again. It took him two more tries before he was finally able to sit up, still looking at the others and whispering through a dry throat.

Youji found the nearest bottle of water and let some of the water trickle into Ken's mouth. The instant the water touched Ken's lips, he pulled the water closer and sucked desperately on it, draining as much of it as quickly as possible. Then he convulsed, coughing violently, gasping and spraying the water back out again.

"Gently, Ken, gently," Youji whispered.

Ken looked up at him in confusion. "Youji?"

"Could you take him back to the car, Youji-kun?" Omi asked. "And could you turn the headlights down? Aya-kun, I'll need your help for a few minutes."

Ken tried to stand up by himself, but he could barely put any weight on his feet and had to lean on Youji. Youji supported his friend as they struggled out of the clearing into the bright lights from the headlights. Youji didn't want to think about trying to put Ken in the confined space of the car, so let him rest against the front rear and he sat in the car with the door open. He was quite grateful to turn the headlamps down to aim at the ground, he didn't want to see what was about to happen.

A few moments passed, during which Youji lit a cigarette and listened to the rain on the windscreen and Ken talking to himself. Youji didn't want to listen too closely in case he started to believe his friend had left his sanity in that cramped tomb. He didn't even want to ask what was happening in the other half of the conversation Ken seemed to be having, or why Ken tried to throw the rock at the tree. Youji tuned the radio to the jazz station and sat back, letting his arm hang out of the car and rest on Ken's shoulder. He let Ken have some more slow sips of water, but a few seconds later the boy retched again and Youji had to pat his back to help him breathe.

"Sorry, Ken," Youji muttered. "No more water for you."

A few minutes later, Aya appeared in the circle of illumination. For an instant, he almost looked nervous, then made a gesture to Youji. Youji nodded, lit another cigarette, and handed it to the other man. Aya gave Ken a glance and then sat in the passenger seat without saying a word.

Then the screaming started.

It was a single, sharp, high pitched wail that cut through the night, making Ken jump and Youji flinch. It didn't die away, it just got quieter, drawn out, then there was another long howl, a gasp for breath, and then another and another.

Aya reached over and turned up the volume of the radio.

Minutes passed, long minutes trying to listen to nothing but the radio, until finally the noise died away to nothing but a faint whimpering on the edge of hearing. Then Omi strolled towards the car. There was blood on his hands, on his shirt and on his trousers, and his expression was completely calm.

"Aya-kun, could you give me a hand?" he said.

Aya extinguished his cigarette and got out of the car again, leaving Youji alone with Ken. A few minutes passed, then Ken tried to reach the water, but flinched as he tried to close his battered hands around the bottle.

"Don't be stupid," Youji told him. "Just this once, would you think about it first? Here, give me your hands."

He took hold of Ken's hands, holding them firmly but as gently as he possibly could. Then he retrieved his and Aya's discarded ties and cautiously wrapped them around Ken's hands as makeshift bandages, tightening them as much as he dared so they held Ken's mangled fingers still.

Despite this, Ken, who was desperately licking the rainwater from his mouth and cheeks, reached past Youji and held the water bottle between his palms. Youji sighed and helped him drink, one small sip at a time. Ken trembled each time, but he seemed to be getting better at keeping it down, but Youji could see he was still drifting between here and wherever his mind had gone to save itself.

"Verse five," he whispered.

"Verse five?" Youji asked.

"I remember now." Ken nodded. "You prepare a table for me... in the presence of my enemies... You anoint my head with oil... My cup overflows."

"That's... great, Ken," Youji said.

Ken blinked and looked up at Youji, his lips trembling towards a smile. "You don't have a clue what I'm talking about, do you?"

Something had changed in Ken's eyes; until then it had been like he had been looking at Youji but seeing someone else. Now he was just looking at his friend. Youji smiled down at him and Ken smiled back. Looking at him, a tiny amount of the worry that had been knotted tightly in Youji's stomach for the past few days began to unwind. He didn't dare look away from Ken in case that recognition went away again. He didn't turn until he heard footsteps in the mud behind him. Omi was standing silhouetted against the headlights with the grim shadow of Aya next to him.

Youji didn't ask and Omi didn't explain; all he said was, "Shall we go?"

And Ken stood up. Or he tried to. He didn't even make it half way up before he cried out and tumbled forward, slamming into the mud, another scream cut off as he retched. Somehow Omi was beside him before Youji could move.

"What happened?" Youji exclaimed. "Ken, are you all... is he okay?"

"He fell," Aya told him simply.

"Fell?" Youji nearly laughed. "What the hell was he doing trying to stand by himself?"

Omi looked up at the two of them, eyes wide. "Youji-kun, Aya-kun, could you be quiet for a second? I've got to..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He was too busy checking Ken over, pressing his fingers against Ken's neck and counting under his breath.

"He's in shock."

This time Youji did laugh. "Of course he is."

"No, Youji-kun, I mean..."

The fear in the big blue eyes told the rest of the story. Hypovolaemic shock. Massive dehydration had brought Ken's blood pressure critically low, and if they didn't get him to a doctor soon he'd be just as dead as he would have been if they'd left him in the coffin.

"Get him in the car, now," Youji said. "We'll have to put him in the front, he can't go in the back in his state."

Ken looked up at them, understanding everything, even the fact that he was dying. "I'm alright," he announced. "I'm fine."

Youji shook his head wearily, tired but glad his friend was coming back. "Christ, Kenken, and you call me a bullshitter."

He clambered out of the car, folded the seat forward and then he and Aya practically carried Ken to the passenger door and slid him inside. Omi reached into the back and retrieved a dry blanket, which he draped over Ken.

"I'll drive," Youji said.

"This is my car," Aya growled.

Youji nodded. "Yeah, man, I know it's your car, that's the problem. If you wanted something with a back seat –"

"At least it has a back seat," Aya interrupted. "And a roof."

Youji gestured to the back of the car. "It has a shelf, Aya, and at least the Seven knows what it's doing. If you'd bought yourself a vaguely sensible car rather than this midlife crisis on wheels..."

"Everyone, please." Omi spoke quietly, but with all the authority of a shout. "Aya-kun, Youji-kun is right. He's not going to fit in the back, his legs are too long. Can we please get going? We don't have time for this now."

Without another word he scrambled into the back seat. Aya gave Youji a cold stare and then followed him, wedging himself in the tiny gap between the seats. Youji folded the driver's seat back onto his legs and slid in.

As he pushed the seat back even further onto Aya's legs, started the too-quiet German engine and hit the buttons to roll all the windows down, Youji felt Ken stir in the passenger seat.

"What happened to the target? The French guy?"

"He died," Aya said.

Ken smiled, nodded, and closed his eyes. They had completed their mission, that was all he'd needed to know. Now Youji knew, as he put his foot down and headed for the nearest hospital, that Ken would be alright.


	6. Epilogue: For You Are With Me

Epilogue: For You Are With Me

Ken slept. The bedroom light was on, the windows were open even though it was raining again, and the radio was playing quietly in the corner. The last time he'd woken up, he'd been terrified he was back in that coffin. Youji made sure he wouldn't go through that again.

Maybe they should have stayed in the hospital, but Kritiker had insisted. Youji knew the doctors had been suspicious; to explain Ken's injuries Youji had spun a story that not only didn't explain them, it hadn't even made sense. Ken had passed out when they reached the hospital, but he'd been there less than a day, long enough for the doctors to start rehydrating him and give him surgery to repair the mess he'd made of his hands and feet before Birman had arrived to whisk him away. Now he slept in his own bed, with his hands and feet bandaged, and an IV in his arm finishing the work the hospital had started.

"I don't understand, Youji-kun," Omi had said while Ken was in surgery. "Why?"

"It's called sensory deprivation," Youji had told him. "You take away light, sound, smell and even touch and leave someone with nothing but whatever's inside their own head. I knew a girl once who used it in small doses as meditation. But in the wrong hands it's a particularly horrible way to torture someone. He broke Ken, and Ken knows it. He can't forgive himself; he knows he would have given up everything."

Omi had looked at him, his big blue eyes red with tiredness, and blinked slowly, as though he had no energy left at all. "Youji-kun... I think any of us would have."

So now Ken slept. His body was healing fast, as it always did, but his mind would take much longer. But it would heal. Youji believed that as much as he believed anything. Ken had survived more than half a day in a tiny, wooden cage with nothing but himself and the ghosts of his past. He had survived two days of torture with almost nothing to eat or drink. He had survived dehydration and shock. He would survive this.

It was only Saturday night, four days since they'd been given the mission, but it felt like a year had passed. After they'd got Ken settled, Manx had arrived. She hadn't stayed for long, just long enough to make sure Ken was okay, to tell Omi to take his time with the report, and to assure them that nothing like this would ever happen again. Even though she had told him there was no need, Youji had apologised for being so angry with her; he knew none of it had been her fault.

When Youji called Sumiko, he found out that no one had noticed that the artist or the Frenchman were missing yet. Youji couldn't find it in himself to care.

When Manx left, Omi had gone with her. Now it was just Ken asleep, and Youji watching over him. Youji read a book where all you needed to do in covert operations was travel the world sleeping with beautiful women. In his sleep, Ken rested a bandaged hand on his friend's arm. After a while, Youji put down the book and carefully moved his chair over so he could rest his hand on Ken's shoulder. Then, listening to the sound of the rain, the radio, and Ken's breathing, he closed his eyes and slept.

_The End_


End file.
